


matthew 10:28

by hurryup



Series: blind mechanism [2]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Nostalgia, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:57:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: Allen's life was increasing in tempo, rushing forward onward in such a torrential rhythm that only angels and devils could keep up with it.All the same, he could not be removed from the thought that this God, who took as surely as he gave, was not a God to be believed in.





	

  
Mana did not take Allen to church.  
  
He looked upon the house of God with a fractured, distant expression. He almost seemed frightened, as if that which he was observing was something that could not be fathomed. His heart was not moved by the gilded altar, the polychrome sanctuary, the gleam of the tabernacle-- the seat of the host. When faced with the white marble _Pietà_ on the steps, through which unmoving stone had been lovingly, painstakingly carved into cloth, into flesh... his eyes flitted away, moving rapidly like a twin fireflies. He would smile, take Allen's hand, and lead him through the square with a detached briskness.  
  
Mana looked, for all the world, that it was impossible that he and God could even exist in the same universe.  
  
This was unusual behaviour for a gentleman, Allen understood, but he didn't care. There was no doubt, of course, that Mana was moral, that Mana was steadfast, that Mana was _good_.  
  
Mana never explained his aversion to the faith, and Allen never questioned it. Why should he? When Allen looked to the sky, he couldn't catch a glimpse at God. What he saw, instead, were the sisters that gathered on the steps-- these great flocks of birds in sober black in white-- whispering _Devil child_ as he went by, the low cuff of his shirt exposing the mangled red of his hand.  
  
If Mana wasn't moved by godliness, what reason did Allen have to be?  
  
It was sad, Allen had thought, that these people needed to fool themselves with the redeeming grace of some imaginary, insensible father. Surely, they had never known a real one. A flesh-and-blood father who carried them home, ruffled their hair, and smiled with pleasant vagueness from beneath the broad brim of his hat.  
  
He once asked Mana if it were true, if he had been marked by evil, if he had been abandoned by God. Then, Mana had knelt on one knee to smooth back Allen's hair, but did not answer.  
  
Allen loved him for his non-answer. Loved him for it as a child, and loved him for it more as he approached the edge of adulthood. He loved it because it was the truth. There was no answer. Mana's silence was a vehement silence, charged with the essence of love. A silence strangely alive, from which Allen could hear the secret sound of a universe made whole.  
  
 Mana would never lie to him.

 

* * *

 

  
  
Cross didn't take Allen church, and Allen had a vague appreciation of that. The hypocrisy of it would have had him steaming in the pews.  
  
Cross' own convictions were vague, perhaps potentially so. His work was, assuredly, the work of a man of God-- Innocence was the essence of God itself, an artifact whose purpose was apparently incorruptibly pure. Cross was less incorruptible. Rather, Cross made moral corruption his brand; vice was his own personal vocation, the means by which he made life livable. At least, that's how he would have put it.  
  
Drink, smoke, women, shuttered rooms that smelled of sex, petty cruelty, excess.  
  
_(Because God damn it, Allen, you've got to make life livable.)_  
  
When Allen asked a question about religion-- never out of any kind of spiritual interest, but rather as a point of practical knowledge-- Cross' answers were direct, to the point, and breezily casual (sometimes vulgar) to the point of sacrilege.  
  
"You blindly adopt a religion, a dogma, you become an automaton," Cross crossed one leg over the other. There was something both soothing and endlessly exasperating about his sleazy, drawling tone. He paused to take a drag of his cigarette, exhaling a steady stream of smoke that swirled up high into the air, then faded into nothing.  
  
He regarded Allen with that peculiar look of his, eyes lazily lidded like those of a particular imperial cat, but alert. Hiding a spark of real interest. "Better to carve out you own path than wait for God to shove you in the right direction. Right? Right."  
  
It was one of the few pieces of worthwhile advice he'd given Allen. Allen would never admit it, but he took it to heart.  
  
The basilicas were beautiful, and so were the verses, but Allen still could not find it in himself to be moved. He would sit beneath the matron eye of the _Mater Dolorosa_ , the trapped agony of her seven-pierced heart, and think instead of Mana. His fading eyes. Those vast, loving silences.  
  
If God existed, then he existed in duality; both cruel and beautiful. Just as his hand was a tool of salvation, a vehicle of his promise, it was the permanent proof of his curse. So was his eye, his scar. Marks of karmic destiny. Marks of deep, personal failure.  
  
Allen's life was increasing in tempo, rushing forward onward in such a torrential rhythm that only angels and devils could keep up with it. All the same, Allen could not be removed from the thought that this God that took as surely as he gave was not a God to be believed in.  
  
Allen's fight would be fought alone.

 

* * *

 

  
There was a chapel in the Black Order. It saw a fair attendance every Sunday, Allen understood. Finders. Science. Administrative staff. Visiting clergymen. Sisters. The same black-and-white habits. The same reproachful stares, whispers; this time, though, he was not _Devil child_ , but _Noah_ — though the curse was, in the end, much the same.  
  
For all their holy exaltation, mass was poorly attended by the Exorcists.  
  
For all the love in her heart, Lenalee's feelings toward God surpassed Allen's apathy and descended into real vitriol. Her hatred of God was at once profound and extremely tactfully concealed. Kanda was less tactful; he thought religion was shit, and no one bothered him about it. It was Kanda. It was expected for him to reject that which was pure and held in reverence. Lavi lacked interest; whether that was due to a defect in personality or an overstudy of religious crusades, Allen could not say. Timothy was too young to have his interest held (though Emilia made an effort to drag him). Krory was not in the habit.  
  
Marie and Miranda, Allen thought, probably attended with one another; although they didn't discuss it, and Allen wasn't always keen enough to take note of their comings and goings.  
  
Link spent every Sunday by Allen's side, and at first, Allen didn't think anything of it. Of course Link would be with him. Link was always with him-- to both Allen's exasperation and (sometimes) pleasure.  
  
Was Link religious? He definitely seemed like he _could_ be, though he never talked about it. He'd been raised by the Vatican. Surely he had some kind of religious education. He kept a leather-bound Bible among his books in beautiful condition, though Allen rarely saw him touch it. He was technically a member of the clergy, but then again, so were the Exorcists, and that had come to mean very little.  
  
Allen would eye at Link while the other was occupied-- taking notes, or beating dough into sweet bread-- and speculate.  
  
Maybe Link's faith was diverted into his faith in Lvellie. He certainly idolized him with the same zeal some worshiped God. An object of devotion. Maybe, in the same sense, Mana held a sort of godlike position in Allen's mind. An imago figure of paternal devotion. The supernal lens of death was quick to make martyrs out of men; names invoked from worlds beyond.  
  
Well, maybe that was a little much.  
  
One bright Sunday morning, Allen asked Link over the breakfast table, "So, do you go to church?"  
  
Link didn't look up from his little black notebook, in which he was writing a series of neat and almost impressively rapid notes. "Well, I suppose I did."  
  
"Huh," Allen said. He toyed with his spoon, tapping it gently against an empty plate. "Every Sunday?"  
  
Link stopped writing, lifting his head to arch an eyebrow. Allen thought it was kind of neat, how he did that. He wondered if Link practiced it in the mirror when no one was looking.  
  
"About every Sunday I could. It was a routine."  
  
"When you were young, too?"  
  
" _Especially_ then," Link responded, contritely. His eyes took on a faraway look, as if he was becoming nostalgic, which was a rare state for him. "We were meant to spend time in contemplation. Memorization of liturgical texts was also highly valued. It was both an exercise in mental fortitude as it was a means of developing devotion."  
  
Link didn't actually discuss his training often. It wasn't that he was secretive or anything, he just didn't often talk about himself or anything personal to him in the first place. Spitting image of professionalism. Allen leaned forwards on his elbows.  
  
"And you're, uh, devoted?"  
  
"Of course I am," Link said. This was an automatic, almost mechanistic response. A statement of the obvious. If he'd been anyone else he might have said well, duh. He jotted down another note. There was a little smudge of ink on his right thumb.  
  
"Do you miss going to mass?"  
  
This actually gave Link pause. He appeared to stop writing mid-sentence. The clouded look returned in full force.  
  
"Sometimes," he admitted, slowly. He turned his pen over in his hand. "I suppose I miss... the words."  
  
"Even though you had to memorize them?" Allen pursed his lips, tried to imagine sitting through the same sanctimony over and over without becoming thoroughly sick of it.  
  
"Maybe because of that," Link admitted. Then, maybe a little flustered, he looked away, feigning interest in his partially complete notes. "They're, well. Familiar. You could call it a comfort, if you'd like."  
  
A comfort, huh. Allen put his spoon down. Tried to draw parallels to his own line of thinking. The way a cup of hot chocolate could make him think of Mana, or the smell of smoke could make him think of Cross. Nostalgia in its most harmless incarnation.  
  
The past was a sure thing, at least, while many other things were not.  
  
It occurred to him, just then, that the only thing keeping Link from attending regular mass was him. He frowned down at the empty dish, and then at Link, who was continuing on in his crisp handwriting with a perfectly placid, attentive expression. Allen looked up, behind Link, at the clock on the wall. A little past 10:30. They could still make the afternoon service.  
  
Allen pushed off from the table, rising to feet. How long was mass? Would he still be expected to drink from the chalice, eat the host even without a proper confirmation? He'd never even been properly baptized, to his knowledge, though this wasn't really common information among the sometimes ludicrously pious Black Order. At the moment, he was feeling full and lax. He wondered if anyone would notice if he dozed off just a little bit.  
  
Link tucked his notebook away, standing with Allen obediently, expression blank. "Where are you off to now?"  
  
The we was, of course, implied. Allen shrugged, burying his greatest defect— his empathy— under a facade of cool triviality. He amused himself with the overserious wrinkle of  
Link's brow, which made him look about five years older than Allen knew him to be.  
  
"Well," he said. "I guess I'm taking you to church."

**Author's Note:**

> a little something written between classes. i love coffee.


End file.
